The Actual Christmas Eve of Doctor John Watson
by IShouldBeOverThis
Summary: In which gifts are given, visits are made, food is eaten, things are revealed & Sherlock finally gets what he really wants for Christmas   Inspired by 'that film.' Took the pieces, scrambled them up in a blender and ran them through a John shaped funnel.


**Title:** The Actual Christmas Eve of Doctor John Watson  
**Pairing and Characters: **John/Sherlock, Sarah, Harry, Angelo, Anthea/Mycroft, Clara, ex-army friend OMC, Lestrade/off-screen OFC, Sally sans Anderson, sadly only mention of Dimmock, and featuring Mrs. Hudson  
**Rating:** G, romance  
**Warnings:** M/M kiss  
**Spoilers:** None  
**Summary: **In which gifts are given, visits are made, food is eaten, things are revealed and Sherlock finally gets what he really wants for Christmas  
**Author's Note:** **Inspired by 'that film.'** **Took the pieces, scrambled them up in a blender and ran them through a John shaped funnel. The only really direct thread is Lestrade's. Oh, and there are probably things that are not logistically possible (such as times to Heathrow on Christmas Eve or even how it's laid out) but no more impossible than the things in the movie. And love is all around us. **

It was four in the morning on Christmas Eve, and Sherlock was checking his email for the ninth time since midnight. Only Christmas could make him this restless and unhappy. He never got what he wanted because no one knew him well enough to get him the things he really wanted. They only got him what they thought he would want. He gave the wrong presents because he got them what they really wanted instead of what they thought they wanted. Only Mycroft had ever gotten it right, and Mycroft no longer sent presents because Sherlock always sent back the ones he received, unopened.

John had gotten Sarah a long pale jade, cashmere and silk scarf. It was beautiful. He knew that John hadn't spent a great deal on it because he and Sarah were just friends now and an expensive gift would have indicated continued feelings, so John would probably tell her how much it had cost him, and where he had found it (stand in Portobello Road). He had smaller presents for others that he worked with at the surgery. Mrs. Hudson had made mounds of cookies and John had taken little cello wrapped bundles of those in for regular patients, many of whom had given him small tokens. Sherlock wondered what it was like to receive presents like that. To have people you barely knew give you things just to show that they liked you and trusted you. John even had presents for some of the Scotland Yard. Lestrade, obviously. Dimmock. Even small bundles of cookies for Sally and Anderson and others that Sherlock could barely remember. Some were wrapped and some weren't. John had carefully written out the tags for everyone and set them by each present to finish wrapping in the morning.

Sherlock ran his fingers over the scarf, noting the soft texture, the delicate colour. For all of its coming from the market, it was very nice. He wanted the scarf. More, he wanted John to wrap it around his neck and John to reach up to turn up his collar and tell him that it matched his eyes. He shut his eyes for a moment and thought of John that close to him, reaching up, face upturned…

He wasn't even sure that John had bought him a present. John seemed anxious so probably he hadn't; he would go out today and buy something nice but boring just to have something. He was kind like that. He fingered John's present in his pocket. Hopefully it wouldn't be seen as too intimate.

He shook his head to clear his thoughts. There were only coals in the fire now, and it was cold in the room. Abruptly he made a decision and jumped up. There were people he needed to thank even if he didn't like them and they didn't particularly like him. He could spread some joy to his homeless network—the ones who were most useful. It was cold and snowing and they would probably be up and about now. He needed to go out, to do something rather than just sitting here waiting for John to get up. He scrawled a note to John saying he'd gone out and left it on the table amongst the presents.

* * *

It was seven in the morning on Christmas Eve and John was woken by the ghastly Number One Christmas Song of the year. Dreadful lyrics sung in a nasally voice by some little pop singer who was probably seventeen, about the beauty of snow and the fire's glow and how you should believe you would find your true love on Christmas Eve. It blared out of the radio alarm app. on his phone. It was Christmas Eve and he had a lot to do. Not the least of which was to buy a present for Sherlock.

God knows he'd been looking. Practically since Guy Fawkes. But what do you buy for a man who talks to skulls and boils body parts in the kitchen? Sherlock had everything nice that he needed, his phone, his clothes, his ruddy greatcoat. And anything that he might want was out of John's league. It wasn't like he could get him a range of poisons or access to a body farm (although he supposed that Mycroft could.) He really had no hope of finding anything today and he hated shopping during the rush, but he thought maybe he could get a couple of small, stupid things like a laptop case or violin supplies. Or shoe polish. That was always nice for Christmas, wasn't it?

Well, no use sitting here. There were presents to wrap and deliver and people to see.

He finished wrapping presents and was out the door for the surgery by 8:30.

Sarah unwrapped the scarf neatly, saving the wrapping paper. "Oh, John, you really shouldn't have."

"Don't worry; I got in the Portobello Road. It's really just a little thing," John smiled, and gave Sarah a small kiss on the cheek. Sarah had gotten him a quite nice pair of gloves, so John didn't feel too guilty.

He quickly distributed the rest of his presents for the staff and was out by a quarter to ten. Just in time to be at the coffee shop to meet Harry and give her gift card to her favorite boutique. She had gotten him a gift card to John Lewis. It was rather a sign of how little they really knew each other.

They sat in silence for a few minutes nursing their coffees, watching the crowds in the street, and John was just thinking of making his excuses when Harry spoke, "John…I know it's been a rough year for you, and I'm…I'm sorry for my part in it. I'm mean you've came home from the war, and then moved in with that lunatic, wound up in the hospital a couple of times. If you didn't look so happy it'd be my sisterly duty to tell you to move out," she smiled but went on in a low tone.

"Well, for what it's worth, I wanted to be there for you, and, well, I'm sorry that you didn't think that you could come to me."

"It's alright, Harry. I know you're having a rough year as well."

Harry gazed at her cup and then out the window, "You can say it, John. I drink too much," she paused, "I have a drinking problem. Isn't that what they say you should do as the first step?

"I lost her, John. The drinks made me think that I was in the right and I walked away from the best thing I ever had. I lost her through my own stupidity and I miss her. I miss having her beside me. I miss our life together. I don't know what else to do. I'm not going to get her back unless I'm sober.

"I don't know which scares me more: getting sober or never seeing her again," she laughed nervously.

John was too wary to be completely hopeful, but still he put his hand on hers. "I know we haven't always been there for each other, and I know this is going to be hard, but I _will_ be there for you through this if you really mean it. But if you don't mean it, and I know that it won't be smooth sailing all the way, but if you fall completely this time, Harry, I won't be there the next time. You can't do it to me and you can't do it to Clara. Do you understand?"

Instead of answering she just nodded, but there were tears in her eyes. John hugged her close to him and tried to remember when they were children and it had all been easy, before one discovers things like sex and alcohol. Before we have sorrows we need to drown. For a moment he considered telling her that he was seeing Clara at two, but decided to see how things went with her new found resolve before mentioning his continuing friendship with Clara.

"So," she laughed at last, wiping her eyes with a napkin. "What did you and the mad man get for each other?"

"I don't have anything yet and I'm at my wit's end. I doubt he got anything for me. He's seemed pretty indifferent to the whole Christmas thing. When I brought home a scarf for Sarah he sniffed and said it wasn't really her color. What's funny is that I actually thought of getting it for him and something else for Sarah. It's the same colour as his eyes... Any thoughts on what to get a man who…is like no one else on earth?"

Harry looked at him for a moment with a very thoughtful look on her face.

"What? Do I have a foam mustache, what?"

"No, I was just surprised that you haven't thought of anything to get him. You two are so close."

"It's not like—"

"Oh, I know. You've said it often enough, but you're best friends. I'm sure he's gotten you something. Probably something utterly clueless, but something. I daresay you'll think of something nice before the end of the day. You're very thoughtful that way, John. You always have been. Just think about what you think he really wants."

At eleven he was out the door with reassurances to be in touch more and promises to look into various programs, and that was when he got the text from Sherlock.

**Lunch? Angelo's? Noon?  
****SH**

John debated for a moment. He was on a fairly tight schedule and had planned on only grabbing a quick sandwich for lunch. But Sherlock offering to meet for lunch with no case was a rare occurrence.

**Sure.  
****J**

So he hit more shops in the area. A nice pen? No, he'd lose it or toss it somewhere or ask John to get it out of his pocket or test the ink in some horrible experiment. Music? He seemed to have eclectic tastes. Although John had never really seen him listen to anything, he would often surprise John with his knowledge of pop music. There were the classical pieces he sometimes played, but John had no idea how to pick out one of those. What about a gift certificate? Seemed so impersonal for a flatmate, especially one with whom he had shared so much in the past year. Something for the apartment? Comfortable pillows? Well, that seemed impersonal and yet weirdly intimate too. 'I was worried about your back and bony arse on the hard sofa, so I got you these pillows.' Definitely weird.

At noon he was in the window of Angelo's again. Bad enough that Angelo still thought they were some sort of closeted couple, but also thought they were such a cute couple that they should be on display in the front window. AND Angelo was humming that damn Christmas song. Five minutes after noon his phone beeped.

**Occupied. Have something on me.  
****SH**

Damn it. Fine. John ordered Fettuccini Alfredo, nice comfort food on a cold day. Told Angelo to put it on Sherlock's tab which, of course, made them look like even more of a couple, but fine. Let the bastard pay for it. Out the door at thirteen hundred.

As he walked back to the center of town he realized he was being followed.

Oh, Lord, that was all that he didn't need—a sleek, black, luxury car pulling up beside him. Fine, if Mycroft was going to be this way, well then it was going to be on John's terms even if it was the last bloody thing he ever did.

Rather than waiting for the chauffeur to open the door, John grabbed the back door handle and wrenched it open, ready to give Anthea a less than polite message for her boss –

Only to be greeted by the very startling image of Anthea half way onto Mycroft's lap, dangling mistletoe above their heads, lips pressed to Mycroft's. With a soldier's instinct, and the help of a very nice phone, John snapped a photo before either of the other two could do more than open their eyes quite wide. He slammed the door and walked away laughing. He might have found the perfect present for Sherlock if he printed it and bought a frame. Maybe he could get it printed on something at one of those kiosks—like a dartboard. He'd better print it out soon though. Mycroft could probably go in and have it deleted from his phone.

More futile looking, although he did buy a frame just in case the picture was what he ended up with. Fourteen hundred, time to meet Clara.

This time John ordered hot chocolate with sprinkles. Holiday spirit and all. Clara looked lovely as ever, serene but tired.

"I saw her today," he said, after they'd exchanged pleasantries, gifts—a pin in the shape of an orchid for her, and a small antique medical journal for him—and caught up.

"I thought you might.

"And?"

"She admitted she had a drinking problem. Said she wanted you back.

"Said she loved you.

"We discussed options—total rehab or 12 step. Don't know what to make of it yet. See how she is on New Year's Eve, through January. Take it one day at a time, as they say.

"What about you? If she were sober, if she were the woman that you fell in love with, would you take her back?"

"I didn't leave her, John. I probably should have, the constant drinking, that terrible not staggering drunk, but high functioning alcoholic, the kind who thinks that they don't have a problem, because they don't fall down when they drink. Just attack the people they're with, the people who love them. The mood swings, the despair, and then the cheating, one-night stands. And finally telling me that she didn't love me anymore. As if I were the one who had hurt _her_.

"I miss her, John. I'll always love her, but I don't know if I can be with her. For myself. I thought I needed her at first, but that's not true. We don't _die _when someone goes, although I suppose for awhile we wish that we could. We need support, but in the end we stand or fall by ourselves. That's part of her problem. She wants to blame, me, you, your parents, past lovers, anyone but herself. I don't want to blame her and I don't want to grow to hate her, and I'm afraid I'll do both if she hurts me again."

"I know, Clara. I've shut myself off from her for so long as well. You can't drown yourself in someone else forever, when there's almost no hope that things will change."

"I suppose there is always hope," she looked at him oddly for a moment. "I'll meet with her, John. Have lunch. See how sincere she seems, but she's going to have to stay clean for a good long while before I trust her again."

"I feel the same, and I wouldn't blame you if you walked away completely. I'll let you know how she goes. Take care of yourself first, Clara. It's all that any of us can really do."

"Speaking of trust, what did you get Sherlock?"

"Why does everyone keep asking me that?"

"Sorry! Because you two are so close. It's all that your blog is ever about. Him and the adventures you two have together."

"He hates when people call them adventures. Says I romanticize it.

"So, what does one get a mad man? A big blue box? No, seriously, I really don't know. I'm going to have to get him a gift certificate or a promissory note just to have something. I'm thinking of giving him a photograph—"

"Of you?"

"What, no! Why would he— Just…something funny that he would like."

"What does he want?"

"You know, she asked me the same thing. I don't know what he wants. I'm sure he knows every toy I ever received as a child by the way I hold my mug in the morning, but I have no clue. Oh, God, there's that horrible song again. I have to get out of here. Great seeing you again. Take care of yourself first," he repeated. With a few more good-byes, they hugged and parted, both bundling up against the cold.

At fifteen past fifteen hundred he was at the door of a rather imposing building at the edge of the city. Taking a deep breath he walked through the doors. He'd promised himself that he would always do this, keep a promise to a friend, but each time it was a challenge. It never got any easier.

The hall smelled of antiseptic, barely masking the scent of blood and vomit, and it took him back with an unpleasant sensation of vertigo and déjà vu.

The ward nurse came up to greet him. She was usually on duty on Fridays and they had grown familiar over the past year. "How is he today?"

"Good, good today. Had a bit of a rough night last night, but feeling pretty well today. Seems a little more lucid. You should be able to speak to him today."

"I brought him chocolates. Is that allowed? Does he know it's Christmas?"

"Chocolates are fine, although we'll probably dispense them to him so that the others don't get excited. I'm not sure he knows, might be better not to talk about it much."

John walked towards the figure seated at the window. His friend, Toby. Toby, one of the finest surgeons John had ever known until an IED rolled the jeep he was in. Until massive trauma had caused his brain to swell and concussive injury had scrambled what was left.

"Toby?"

"Hello?" Toby looked up at him with confusion.

"Toby, it's John. Your friend John Watson."

"John? Yes, yes, John. Hello."

Slipping into the chair next to him John continued, "Hello, Toby. I brought you some chocolates. I know you like the mint."

"Oh, thank you." He looked up again, puzzled. "Is it my birthday?"

"No, it's— it's just a nice day and you deserve chocolates."

"John? I, I can't quite remember…" the scarred brow furrowed with concentration.

"We met a long time ago, Toby. We were— are good friends."

"I like you? Yes, yes, I like you. You bring me chocolates and…we worked together! But I can't remember…what we did…"

"We worked together and you were very good at what we did. And now you're resting."

"I'm on holiday?"

"Yes, you're on holiday and you don't have to worry about anything."

"Good. I don't have to worry. Thank you for coming to see me…" he trailed off, John's name gone again like everything else.

John stood, leaned over and kissed the other man's head gently. "Goodbye Toby," he whispered. "I'll come again soon," even though he knew that the other man wouldn't remember.

He walked out of the ward gently wiping his nose with his handkerchief. He nodded at the nurse on the way out.

Sixteen hundred next stop, Scotland Yard. Hopefully everyone hadn't left for the day. His arm was getting tired from carrying the bags of cookies. He would be glad to drop them off at last and head home. Maybe after a beer or two with Greg. Of course, he still didn't have a real present for Sherlock, and the shops would be madness now, just before closing. It was a lost cause. He'd just have to print out the picture and frame it for now.

He greeted people, passed out baggies and left a box of rum balls in the canteen for anybody he'd missed. Then he headed to Greg's office. He'd gotten him a nice bottle of scotch because they'd discussed scotches one night. They'd become good friends over the year. Both of them commiserating each other after suffering a Sherlock moment. He was very pleased with the noise canceling headphones that Greg had gotten him. They both knew why.

John sagged gratefully in his chair, glad to get off his feet. "I missed Sally and Anderson? Did they take the day off? I hope not together."

"Sally should be around. Anderson…transferred, up north, buried in snow now, I expect."

"Really? Promotion?"

"Er, no. More like an escape."

"Escape?"

"From the soon-to-be-ex-Mrs. Anderson, and Sally too."

"Well, there are more women up north."

"Yes, I suppose there are, but not sure…"

"…if any of them would want Anderson?"

"Absolutely." They laughed comfortably together for a few moments.

Suddenly Greg sat up and seemed to make up his mind about something. "John, I, uh, have a favor to ask of you, well, something to ask you, at any rate."

"Sure, Greg, go ahead."

"You were in Afghanistan…"

"I believe so, yes."

"Did you learn any of the language?"

"Smattering of Pashto—mainly how to say, "Don't shoot! Medic." A little Dari to get by on the base."

"The thing of it is…I have a cleaning woman who's Afghani…and I'd like to write her a note for Christmas. She is actually Christian, wears a cross, but her English is very poor."

"Greg… am I right in thinking that you'd like to tell her more than just Merry Christmas?"

"Oh, hell… Yes, you've been hanging out with him too long. Knew he was rubbing off on you, just didn't know he'd taught you to read minds. Although you were always more tuned to emotions than he'll ever be. You're really a good influence on him, you know. You don't want to know what he was like before you. He really trusts you I think, for what it's worth."

John digested that for a moment. "How about I write, 'I'm glad that I've met you and I'd like to get to know you better sometime'? I think I can just about write that without it sounding like a pick-up line."

John scrawled some swirling characters on a piece of paper, and then phonetically spelled out their pronunciation.

"Let me know how it goes, ok? I might be able to introduce you to some of the translators I knew—you know, if you need them."

Greg looked at the page for a beat and then looked up at John, "So, speaking of needing translators to other languages, what did you get him?"

"Jesus, Greg. I think I'm going to kill the next person who asks me that and you're right in my line of site.

"I haven't gotten him anything because there is nothing he needs. He is a universe unto himself."

"I don't know that there's nothing he needs. Or nothing that he wants. It's just a pity that none of us really know what it is."

"Agreed. Beers?"

"Can't—family things. Mass, things like that. Have a happy Christmas, John. Give him my regards, well, not if he's going to be snarky about it, but you know what I mean."

Sally was at her desk when John came out. He walked over and dropped the cookies on her desk. Startled, she looked up.

"You know you're better off without him, don't you?" he said as kindly as he could.

"Yeah. That's what I tell myself. Guess it should have been you warning me all those months ago. It still stands, you know. He is going to get you killed or drive you mad. But I know you're closer to him than I thought. I mean you're both mad, but maybe in a good way."

"Thanks. You're a great cop, Sally. Don't let anyone tell you differently. And you deserve better. Someone who puts you first. Find someone you can talk to. It makes all the difference."

"Thanks, John. Thanks for the cookies too."

John had just turned away when Sally called out, "He really trusts you, John. I think he even cares about you in his own way. I never thought that was possible for him until you."

"Thanks, Sally. Have a very happy Christmas."

"Jewish, John."

"Oh, God! How embarrassing."

"Don't worry about it. Used to it. Take care. Take care of him too, you know what I mean."

And at that moment his phone buzzed. He nodded to Sally and walked out, checking the phone.

**Where are you?  
****SH**

**Scotland Yard. Drinks? Dinner?  
****J**

**Love to.  
****SH**

**Where?  
****SH**

**Brownlow's Pub?  
****J**

**Rats.  
****SH**

**What?  
****J**

**Oh.  
****J**

**Bistro Americana?  
****SH**

**Thought you didn't like it.  
****J**

**Hate the name. Food decent.  
****SH**

**18 hundred?  
****J**

**Fine.  
****SH**

**You know, this whole thing would be faster if you would just call for once.  
****J**

**Boring.  
****SH**

But again, John was left sitting in a fairly expensive restaurant alone at fifteen past, like a stood up blind date, raging against the mad man who did this to him time and again, and raging against himself for taking it, because he just didn't know why he did it over and over.

He let himself have dinner and a couple of glasses of wine, because, quite frankly, he needed it at this point. So at half past nineteen hundred he felt supported enough to send a text.

**Where the hell were you, you bastard?**  
**J**

**Detained by Mycroft. Seemed tetchy. Something must have really wrecked his day. Good. Something to do with Anthea, I believe. She wouldn't meet my eye and seemed flustered for her. Actually think she broke her texting rhythm. He kept asking if I'd seen you, actually. Case in Edinburgh he wants me to look at. High ranking government official, possible implications. Flying out at ten thirty.  
****SH**

**But it's Christmas tomorrow.  
****J**

**Yes, I am aware. The music and tinsel told me as much.  
****SH**

**What can you do on Christmas?  
****J**

**Check out the area. Read newspapers. Now you can find me something for Christmas on Boxing Day. You should be relieved.  
****SH**

**Bastard.  
****J**

**How much have you had to drink?  
****SH**

**Piss off.  
****J**

**That much then.  
****SH**

It had been a long and exhausting day traipsing all over London. A quiet night in front of the fire would be nice and peaceful without Sherlock.

Still, it would have been good to have seen Sherlock before he left. Neither really had any plans for the next day. John had some movies he'd been saving. Things he thought Sherlock might really like, because they were thought provoking, _Memento_ and _Pi_. Now he was at loose ends.

He slumped into 221b and had just started up the stair when Mrs. Hudson came out of her flat. He and Sherlock had actually agreed and gone halvsies on her present. A complete set of bamboo knitting needles because Sherlock had read that they held body heat to ease arthritis.

"John? Sherlock left you a Christmas present and a note. He told me to make sure that you got them both."

John took the tiny, slim package and the folded letter. It was an iPod touch, brand new. It was also engraved: Doctor John Watson from Sherlock Holmes.

_John,_

_I know that I am not an easy person to live with, that I order you about, treat you like a servant, destroy your relationships with other people and generally make your life hell. And yet you remain and you even seem to care for me._

John didn't need to be the world's only consulting detective to see the space between those two words, a break in the handwriting that indicated a pause in the writer's mind.

_I don't know what I've done to deserve your friendship. I only know that I treasure it more than I have the capability of expressing, and you know that that is difficult for me to admit._

_The speakers on your phone are rubbish for music and I know that it would help you to be able to tune me and my various disruptions out sometimes, so I have bought you this small token. Please do not think that it is too extravagant. Think of it as a share in the payments I have received for cases I have solved with your help. And a thank you for saving my life on more than one occasion._

_I have taken the liberty of adding some music already. They are recordings of me playing several of the songs that you have said that you enjoy and some of my favorite pieces. If you don't like them, please feel free to delete._

_Thank you for your friendship._

_Your friend,_

_Sherlock Holmes_

Trust Sherlock to sign his full name to a personal note.

Flicking through the songs he saw 1 Gymnopedies, 2 Gymnopedies, 3 Gynopedies - Satie, Violin Sonata in G-L.140 - Debussy, Nessun Dorma from Violin Fantasy on Puccini's Turandot – Puccini. He didn't recognize the names of any of them.

He was rereading the letter again, thinking that there was something that he was missing—something that Sherlock would be able to see instantly—when Mrs. Hudson came back out of her flat.

"John, there are some pictures that were taken at that little Christmas party I threw last week, and I think that you should look at them."

"Not now, Mrs. Hudson. I'm trying to figure something out."

"John," she repeated, more firmly this time, "I think looking at these pictures will help you figure out what you need to know."

Reluctantly he took the pictures. They were all of him and Sherlock and in every one of them Sherlock was looking only at him. Looking with an expression of such longing that John almost couldn't believe that it was Sherlock, that perhaps they'd been Photoshopped in some way. But it was real. It was Sherlock, just gazing at him.

Oh.

She handed him a few more. And this time they were of him. Looking at Sherlock with so much admiration that it verged on adoration.

Oh.

It was so extraordinary that he had to sit down on the second step for a moment and there was Mrs. Hudson with a nice cup of tea.

"There, dear, I knew you'd get there."

"How long…?"

"How long has he been in love with you? Oh, I should think almost from that first night when the police were here. It may have even been earlier. I've never seen him so eager for someone's good opinion as he was when he showed you the flat."

"How could I have not known, not seen it."

"He didn't want you to see it. And we all know how well Sherlock can keep his secrets, but the rest of us could see it because he wasn't guarding himself against us, just you."

"So, everybody knows?"

"I don't know about everybody, dear. Perhaps he's more guarded when the two of you are out in public.

"Do you love him? That's the more important question right now."

"I don't know. I hadn't thought about it in those terms…"

"Well, you might want to figure it out soon."

John thought back to everything he felt when he was with Sherlock, the energy, the glow, the warmth deep inside. The need to be near him. The need to see him every morning. The hyper-awareness of him…

Oh.

He was in love with Sherlock. And he was an idiot. And Sherlock was an idiot. And Sherlock was getting on a plane to Scotland in two hours.

John looked at his watch. He still had time if he moved like a maniac.

On the train John attempted to make it go faster by sheer willpower. Frustrated, he listened to music on the player. Every piece was lush and beautiful and haunting, and he had enjoyed them when he heard them from Sherlock's violin, although he had no idea what they were. At last he was at Heathrow, hurtling through the concourse at break-neck speed. He expected at any moment to be tackled to the ground by security and carted off to an undisclosed location, but that didn't matter as long as he had a moment to speak to Sherlock, to just see him.

And then there he was, at the gate, Sherlock just taking off his shoes.

"SHERLOCK!"

Sherlock looked up confused but found John's eyes for a moment and slipped out of the line grabbing his luggage and limping with one shoe on and one shoe off as the other passengers muttered angrily.

"John?" he said as he walked towards him.

And John didn't think. Couldn't think. Couldn't pause a moment or he would stop and consider and get worried and scared. So John rushed at Sherlock, nearly knocking him over, grabbed Sherlock's head, pulled the taller man down and kissed him.

At first Sherlock seemed reluctant, his mouth a hard line and John panicked, thinking that everyone had misread the situation. That he'd misread the situation and destroyed everything. Sherlock pulled away and murmured, "John," again in a small, unsure voice. But it wasn't angry and it wasn't shocked and it wasn't stop.

So John kissed him again, this time running his tongue along Sherlock's lips and then Sherlock was kissing back with a tiny whimper in the back of his throat. They were kissing and there was so much _hunger_ in Sherlock's kiss that John felt he might be bowled over by it, but Sherlock was gripping him around the waist with both arms, luggage dropped unnoticed beside them and he was vaguely aware that people were cheering around them and saying 'Way to go mate,' 'Oh, what a cute couple,' and annoyingly, 'Yes, but do they have to do that there?' but then there was only the taste and pressure of Sherlock's mouth and Sherlock's warm chest and Sherlock's long arms around him and nothing else in the universe.

When he could bear to pull back for a moment John asked, "Why didn't you tell me?"

Sherlock rested his forehead against John's, eyes downcast. "I was afraid that you would leave, and I would rather be in agony with you near than in despair without you at all."

"Oh, Sherlock…" And their mouths were back together saying every desperate unexpressed thing. John couldn't decide if he wanted to run his hands through Sherlock's hair or slide them up his back, under his coat and imagine the feel of the skin beneath. So he compromised by putting one hand in Sherlock's hair and wrapping his arm around that slender waist, inside the coat, feeling the radiating heat.

Sherlock broke the kiss this time, "Come to Scotland with me, John, please?"

"I don't have any kit with me."

"We can get you things there—on Mycroft. Please come…I want…I just want to wake up next to you on Christmas morning."

Oh.

"Yes, Sherlock, you know I always do what you ask." John paused, smiling and wrapping his arms around Sherlock's neck, "And I want to wake up next to you too."

That song was playing again and this time John understood that sometimes you do have to believe, because he'd found his true love on Christmas Eve.

"Happy Christmas, Sherlock."

"Happy Christmas, John."

* * *

**More notes: if John had known the translation for Nessun Dorma (which I didn't know until today—happy accidents) he might have figured it out sooner:**

…**in your cold room,  
watch the stars,  
that tremble with love and with hope.  
But my secret is hidden within me…**

**…On your mouth I will tell it when the light shines.  
And my kiss will dissolve the silence that makes you mine!**

**Also, hilariously, the one thread that I had the most trouble incorporating was the one featuring Martin Freeman. And I just feel terrible that I didn't include Molly somewhere-should have had her with Dimmock. There's a pairing that's never been done.**


End file.
